A Goddess's Lament
by Mercury Gray
Summary: After many years of silence, Amphitrite, the wife of Poseidon, recounts her life and how she came to be the figure she is in song and story, and how she met Percy before events in The Last Olympian. Bookverse.


A Goddess's Lament

After many years of silence, Amphitrite, the wife of Poseidon, recounts her life and how she came to be the figure she is in song and story.

* * *

Let no man say I did not love my husband.

If you allow only one lie never to pass the lips of men again, reader, let it be that, and I will take some comfort in it. Too numerous are the falsehoods told about me, but that is chief among them. They may say that I was jealous, or that I was cold, and they may be true enough at times, but ever did I love him. _Who are you, a goddess, to be asking this of us_, some of you may ask. _Surely one of the divine blood can spare themselves from petty libel, smite the lips that carry on the lies. _

Alas, if only it was so easy. If I was Zeus, my brother-in-law, I might be able to smite the liars with a single blast of lightning, or if I was Apollo my nephew I might provoke the golden tongued who offer him tribute to craft better stories in my name. Perhaps if the Muses were counted among my friends my tale would be told differently. But poets and storytellers bear little love for the sea and the waves, and I can offer them little in payment or reward for work well told. And so the world forgets the name of Amphitrite, the oxen-eyed, the thrice-girdled, wife of Poseidon and Queen of the sea.

It is true -- I have not done many deeds worthy of remembrance, but great deeds should not be the only stuff of songs. Cannot the poets sing of loyalty, of constancy of heart and strength of mind? Are not those who_ help_ the doers of great deeds worthy in their own right to be remembered?

Let me share a secret with you, reader, if you think you can stand to hear it – before me, my husband was a mere pretender to the kingship of the sea, a second son of Rhea, and no Titan to match Oceanus, Lord of the Deeps. And was I not the daughter of the Titan myself, a Nereid, the firstborn of my forty-nine sisters? The waters obeyed me, and the creatures of the deep offered me counsel. When the children of Kronos emerged from their Father's stomach and smote him down into the deep pits of Tartarus as dust, Zeus built upon Olympus as his father the Lord of Time had done and Hades channeled deep into the deep to build his Underworld, and Poseidon was left the second kingdom, the ocean, where my father slept and my mother slithered.

Oh, he was handsome then, the second son of Kronos and Rhea. Any goddess would have said as much – and often they did. His hair was soft and he walked like a warrior walked, sure of himself and proud. Tall he was, and well-muscled, in every way a god. Titans are not well formed – strong and full of power, but not fashioned pleasing to the eye. When he stepped into the ocean, it obeyed him and he found he could bend it to his will. When he asked the waters to help him find a bride the waves guided him to the place where my sisters and I were bathing, in Cythera, where my niece, Aphrodite, would later be born. He saw my sister Thetis and desired her greatly, as any mortal or immortal would. She was Amazon-tall and bold-eyed, with hair that swept like a rushing wind over the water and skin as smooth as riverstones. Silverfoot, they called her then. He vowed to make her his bride. But before he returned to make his suit, it was told to him that the son of Thetis would be greater than the father that begot him. Poseidon turned his thoughts away from my sister, who wouldn't have wanted him anyway – she was to love a mortal, Peleus, and their son, Achilles, would later become greater than his father, the greatest hero that a tale has ever been told about.

He forgot my sister, and in her wake, he found me, greater than Thetis and (if I do say so myself) a far bigger prize. I was my mother's lieutenant, her fleetest messenger across the seas, and I wanted none of marriage as my sisters did. They'd told me of the son of Kronos, how he wouldn't stop asking them where I was, and I'd laughed at them. He was winning over the ocean, my sisters said, and he would one day be a great king, greater than my father. He sent messengers after me from his little palace at the bottom of the ocean, far enough away from my father, and I'd evaded them all. I knew the depths better than any other immortal save my parents. Finally he sent Delphinus, his strongest councilor, one who had once given advice to me when I was a child. That wise dolphin knew all my hiding places, and he pursued me relentlessly. I swam the entire ocean with him in pursuit, and he never faltered, finally catching me near the home of the Hesperaides, the daughters of Atlas who I'd played with once upon a time.

He gave me a ring (I wear it still) sent from his master, a cunningly worked thing of rare green pearls and moon-lit silver, and in my vanity, I put it on to admire it on my finger. Foolish child, I was then – it was a magic ring, and brought me to Poseidon's palace. He caught me before I could escape and told me of his love for me. In his eyes I saw the sea I loved so much, the wild, untamed passion of it, and I knew his words to be truth. I gave in, reader. I found I loved him, his persistence and his strength and his own love of the sea, and I married him. My dowry was my knowledge, my control of the waters, and the bride-price paid to my father was comfort and rest for all eternity. We were happy and the sea rejoiced with us– I bore him children, two daughters and a son.

And slowly, he forgot it was I who had given him his kingdom. He took lovers; he strayed from the bed he had crafted for us, the dark deep-grained driftwood frame with pearl scenes inlaid into the wood. I remained steadfast; I remained true. I loved him as I had loved him since he'd wooed me in that titanic chase.

That does not mean I did not hate the women he ignored me for. Oh, deep and dark some days was my desire for their hurt. The tales of old recount to you how I destroyed Scylla, one of my sea-nymph brethren, for seducing my husband. They forget that Scylla's crimes were far, far worse than simply sharing my husband's bed. That much I could forgive; no one likes to refuse a god. No, Scylla lied to the other Nereids, telling them that Poseidon had declared he loved her more than he loved me, and said that he was going to give her one of his wedding gifts to me -- a breastplate made entirely of mother-of-pearl scales. My husband may be many things, but ever he returns to me, if only for a little while. He lifted no finger to help Scylla, and a whirlpool she remains still, with a belt of barking dog's heads that remind her forever of the sin of false pretense.

Still, it was many, many years before I realized that jealousy did not serve me well.

The sea was restless in those days, untamed. Men remembered my husband's affairs better than they remembered his legitimate children, forgot that it was I who kept my husband's moods calm. Yes, mortal, it is I who calms the waves and reasons with my husband's angry voice in the hurricane. I am the Tide-Changer and the Laughing-Water, the Kissing-Wave and the Cresting Plume. Sailors offer to Poseidon to contain his wrath – wives should offer to me to do the same. For I am a wife, and a mother, and I have sympathy for those that wars and warriors forget. When my husband raged against Odysseus, and forbade him come home from Troy, I pitied Penelope.

Ah, Penelope, ever-true wife, poets should sing more of your great charms! Peerless among mortals, a better example than your cousin Helen. Poseidon kept Odysseus away from rocky Ithaca for ten long years after the fall of Troy, and for those years I offered solace, made sure her fisherman brought in good harvests and her trade ships returned back to harbor safely. Once I sat and spun with her, her thread only wool and mine the cutting foam. How little the Mist lets mortals see us – she saw only a noblewoman of the town whose name she knew as Nera, not a sea-goddess working seafoam on a golden spindle.

Her son grew up, a fine strong boy that any mother would be proud of, and when Telemachos left to seek out news of his father at the house of Nestor, I went to the docks disguised as a fishwife. The captain of his boat was an ugly fellow, Anaxagoras; his name, well-spoken, did not serve him fairly.

"Ship-master, you've been to the temple, I assume," I said, watching the men wind cord and make the oars tight and fast in their locks. "Poseidon needs his tribute."

"What's it to you, woman, whether I've been or not?" the captain answered harshly.

"Who's to say what's been keeping Odysseus away from home all these long years?" I said simply, veil over my face. "Perhaps the Sea-God cursed him. Better to not let his son fall prey to the same fate. Better still," I added as I saw I'd captured his attention, "Sacrifice to Amphitrite as well. She's a mother, and has sons of her own. Perhaps her favor's what you really need."

The captain heeded that well enough, and left his crew to prepare the libations himself. Then Telemachos came, something bright and god-sent in his eyes. They loaded up their ships, and left, and I was with them every day of that trip to sunny Pylos in many forms – a dolphin, a gull, the cutting foam. The poets say that Athena sent the wind that bore them hence – not so. My niece never summoned winds, thought she could build devices to catch them. I caught the winds and blessed the sails with them, sweet calm breezes that made no mighty waves.

It did my heart good when they put in at Pylos amidst the sacrifice to Poseidon -- my husband would be eating so well he'd have no mind for young men with over-clever fathers. I watched from a distance as Telemachos spoke to Nestor and his sons. I joined the welcoming feast as a young maiden, white limbed and willowy, dancing with the celebrating crowd. Men watched me and called me beautiful – I'd forgotten how that feels, to have a man look on you with desire, call you pearl-skinned and perfect. My husband's long rage against the Ithacan had made him forget his wife.

"Thinking of setting your girdle around young Telemachos, Aunt Phi?" a young man's voice asked me. But before he spoke again, I knew it was no man. The eyes gave her away – no matter what she turns into, owl, man or maid, she always keeps her flashing eyes. Glaukopis Athena – my niece, and Odysseus' protector. She'd been aboard with Telemachos, rowing as one of the men, and here she was now, partaking in the feast. She laughed at her own joke. "Your husband my uncle won't like that."

"I do this for his mother," I said, defending myself. Athena's tongue was always too quick with her wit for me. "The boy's too young for me." _And what mortal could compare to Poseidon Earthshaker?_

"Ah, peerless Penelope. What would she think if she knew she had two goddesses on her side?" Athena wondered, studying the feast.

"No woman should lose her son over his father's sins," I said strongly, recalling Iphegenia, small precious daughter of Agamemnon, killed to appease Artemis whose sacred grove the King of Mycenae had violated. How my heart had broken for the tender little soul, lead to the slaughter by the promise of marriage to my nephew Achilles. "You wouldn't understand."

Athena nodded, wisdom in her glance. Like all the Wise, she knows when to admit she's the poorer council. She couldn't understand a mother's love then – I think were we to talk now, the conversation might be different. My niece has children of her own. I'd believe her if she said now she knew what mothers' love is like, how fear-filled and how all-encompassing.

Yes, how times have changed. The virgin goddess Parthenos Athena has asked for succor from Eileithyia, birth-pain giver, and Amphitrite, she who was called jealous, watches her husband's bastard children with care.

I do watch them all, since my husband seems too busy himself to do it. Some I love, some…well, some I less than love. Let Hera be the jealous one between us, casting off her unwanted. I am Amphitrite, the oxen-eyed, the Laughing-Water, thrice girdled, white limbed. I was powerful before I was my husband's, and I made him what he is. I looked out for Theseus when he wished to prove he was the sea-god's son; I even gave him my golden wedding circlet, woven from Olympian roses, to prove to Minos he had touched Poseidon's palace. A good boy, Theseus, and kind to his parents above the waves and below. Never was I forgotten for the sacrifice after that. I know all of their names, all of my husband's sons and daughters, though some have never seen my husband or been given his grace. Theseus, Pegasous, Hippothoon, Lelex, Bellerophon, Kykereus, Nauplios, Neleus, Orion, Aegnor, Polyphemos, Amycus. The list is too long to recount all of it to you. Some well-named, some well known, some even well-loved. Most, however, remain merely demi-gods their father forgot.

As the gods have moved west so have my husband's…indiscretions. New heroes for new places and new times. Francis Drake, Lord Nelson, Thomas Cochrane. Olympus moved still further west, across the Atlantic Ocean. Demeter brought forth her own beloved Johnny Appleseed, hero to only her for planting trees, and my husband got caught up in the bright mind and brighter eye of a freedwoman in Missouri. Years later men still talked about John Henry, who like his father was an earthshaker and could move the mountains.

All this while my own children were forgotten by the minds of men. Triton, his first-born and his heir, and my two loving, dutiful daughters. Rhodes and Benthesikyme, the Red Isle and the Flashing Wave. When he promised on the river Styx he would not sire another mortal child I thought my troubled days of watching children not my own were finished. I will not lie to you, reader – I rejoiced. I put on my best robes, my choicest perfumes. I sent for the finest foods my servants could prepare, wines that no mortal tongue had tasted for hundreds of years. I spread my feast and called my husband, and I made him forget that he had sworn he would lay with no other women. I should not humble about it – I made him forget he ever wished to.

The poets say that Zeus and Hera spent three-hundred years in their marriage bed. The gods laugh when they hear that story; though time is faster to us and means less, three hundred of your human years are far too long to let the world remain ungoverned. Hera gave her king sixteen days within their wedding bed on Samos, four times four days, a sacred number. I was a playful goddess again – I gave my husband the same in my celebration.

But happy days and blessed times cannot last forever. He kept his promise for some years and eventually he strayed again. The gods would not be the gods if they did not err as humans do. Why else do you revere us immortal ones? You see yourselves in us, your flaws and your defects.

_How did you know about this child_, you ask, _this… tiny breach in the mightiest of oaths?_ Certainly no one told me of his arrival. If anyone must bear the blame for telling me, he himself sent word. One night while I was sleeping I heard a sound only a mother hears and heeds, a child's wailing; no purely mortal child cried so furiously or caused such clamor. I caught up my robes and followed the noise, ascending to a beach – near New York, I think it was. Winds ripped the sand and the sky was dark with spiraling clouds; in his distress, the boy'd called up a hurricane. There could be no mistaking Poseidon's son.

I watched the scene from outside the small cottage, invisible in the gray-dark storm. His mother had awoken, going to the boy's cradle and lifting him from the blankets. What little hair the child had was dark, just like my husband's. The baby calmed, and outside, the storm began to lessen, the fear that had stirred it up decreasing with every soft word and warm moment in his mother's arms. Soon the boy was asleep again, and both mother and child went back to bed. I became a stream of sand – I crept inside the house under the door.

Oh, you who have never discovered infidelity, I pray you never find what I found there. A perfect baby boy, fragile still and in need of care. You wish for anger and in your mother's heart can summon none. I could not help myself. I picked him up and held him in my arms, seeing a child who looked too much like my own. I sang him lullabies I'd sung my own children centuries before. He slept on, unawares. The mother had calmed the child, but she had not calmed the storm – that was me, Amphitrite Wave-Smoother who makes all storms cease.

We had strong words that next morning, Poseidon and I. He'd wanted to acknowledge the boy, send him where all Olympian bastards go – Stratopedo Misotheos, Encampment of the Half-Gods. I forbade it. _Why,_ you are doubtless asking yourselves, _why would a goddess who has for so long looked after such children forsake one now?_

Reader, I feared him, this boy-child who had called the hurricane. Feared that he would be the one to fulfill the Great Prophecy and overturn his father as Poseidon and I had overturned mine. It was love that made me ask that the child remain out in the world. Better, surely, to let a monster have its way with him and send him quietly to Hades. But my reasons were not purely of the giving kind. Here was an oath broken, a true sign of my husband's infidelity. I had hoped that Styx would hold my husband to his word, that finally Poseidon would be mine and mine alone again.

In the end I prevailed – the boy remained unacknowledged. So it remained for some years. And then it seemed the Fates would let him be no longer. Like Theseus before him, the boy's actions demanded his birthright. My husband gave it to him, claiming him as his own in the Encampment, setting him apart from the other unclaimed ones.

I would not look at Poseidon for weeks, did not talk to him for months. The boy – Perseus was his name – stayed far from my seeing pool. I came to know him for his deeds before I knew his face – how he had stolen the master bolt and returned it, how he had crossed the sea of monsters and braved the perils of the labyrinth. My niece Athena came to rant to me of how her daughter was infatuated with the boy, and the Cyclops Tyson (another wayward misstep of my husband's) when he came to stay in the palace under the sea rhapsodized about his older brother, how kind he was and how brave. Tyson is a dear boy, and that is saying much – I have not loved one of his brothers as I love him. His affection is boundless, unlike some of the elders of his race. One cannot help loving something so sweet.

All good times must end – the ages rise like mountains and the wind and weather wear them down again. Kronos returned, calling his brothers to him. And my father awoke with anger in his heart. The sea frothed, columns collapsed, beasts I had only heard of from my mother Tethys surfaced to terrorize my people and my creatures; the chaos of the primeval sea returned.

How quickly constant battle wore my husband down. He aged a thousand years in only days, the strength that kept him young and virile sapped away by constant use. My own beauty fared differently – I remembered the vigor and ferocity of youth, the tempests of my mother and the deep current of strength from my father. What raised my ire kept me beautiful; I forgot the peaceful waves and returned to the storms of my childhood.

It was in the very center of it all when the boy came to us, lead by Tyson, so excited that his brother was finally able to see his father's palace.

I can see it in my mind's eye so clearly. Here he is now, taller and well-formed, with thick black hair and a warrior's gait. So like his father, all those years ago. I can still see remnants of that baby's face in his, though the lips have widened and the nose lengthened. The baby I sang to sleep is a man now, or nearly one, at least. Poseidon looks away from our battle plans, and steps between me and the boy, as if some how he can shield me, make me invisible. They speak, the son confused, not recognizing the father, while the father is tired, wanting to be the man he always is for his son.

"I should introduce you," he tells the boy. "I'm afraid you just missed Delphin, God of the Dolphins. And this is my, er, wife, Amphitrite." My husband sounds ashamed, finally found out by his son. Of course they never remind my husband's sons of my existence. Scylla remains large in the memory of Chiron, who has lost so many heroes to my act of vengeance.

The boy Perseus looks at me, and I know what he sees – a goddess made cold by a wandering husband, a woman who hates him. His eyes are like my husband's – a heavy green, full of the sea's power.

"Excuse me, my lord – I am needed in the battle," I said, and swam away, heart heavy and face grim.

In all this the boy is wrong; I do not hate him. I have never hated one of my husband's children. I have loved them all, some more than others, because of Penelope, who watched and waited and raised her son. I love them for Telemachos' sake. The father' s sins are not the son's, should never be heaped on young shoulders like that. What I hate is that he could have been my son, this mortal boy of whom I know my husband is so fond, this boy I know the world will remember and celebrate for because he, like them, is mortal.

So now, you who read this, listen now to a goddess's lament. I have become like footprints in the sand of the shore, slowly washing away with none to mark their passing. Soon I will be gone, and my deeds and words with me. You who read this, read and remember. Remember that I was more than a jealous wife, more than a patient mother. Remember that I shepherded the children of the sea and kept them safe from harm.

Remember that I loved my husband.

* * *

Eh, well, this has been going through editing for nearly a week now, and it's not changing in content, so I think it's time to unleash it on the world.

Where necessary I've made up more ephithets for Amphitrite – she is called oxen-eyed and 'loud groaning' in various classical sources, but the rest of her titles, pearl-skinned, laughing-water, and so on, are all a figment of my imagination. She is known for her golden spindle, but I've yet to find out what it's used for. Here, she spins sea-foam with it. The title 'thrice girdled' is a variation on her role as the 'encircling third' probably a reference to her role as the personification of the sea itself.

Her birth, also, is hard to pin down – several PJO fansites and additional sources have her listed as the daughter of Oceanus and Tethys, the two titans of the primordial sea, which is what I've used here. Other possible parentages include Doris and Nereus, making her the granddaughter of the two titans.

The story about Theseus as well as the story about Scylla are based in myth, and the episode involving Telemachos is based on the third 'chapter' of the odyssey generally entitled A Visit to Pylos.

Sources consulted:  
Wikipedia articles on Poseidon, Amphitrite,  
Theoi articles on Poseidon, Amphitrite  
Robert Fitzgerald's translation of The Odyssey


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